


Mating Season

by tigersilver



Category: Kyou Kara Maou!
Genre: Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Smut, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:41:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26163568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigersilver/pseuds/tigersilver
Summary: A romp through the seasons, as it were. Ahem.
Relationships: Wolfram von Bielefeld/Shibuya Yuuri
Comments: 10
Kudos: 23





	1. Spring

Spring was a time for the birds and the bees – or the bearbees and the sandbears, as the case may be – to get busy, procreating, getting ready to bring up the next generation, so the world would not lack their buzzing or burrowing.

It was the cloud of wine-rich bearbee pollen that likely set off other species' procreative timers and got them going as well – hunting, lusting, flourishing, mating. It spread through the land, dusting leaf and rooftop and cliff edge with a heady, golden haze that was simply irresistible, a hundred million times more potent than Cheri's infamous orchid perfume.

It wended its way to Blood Pledge Castle, blown by verdant breezes, and merrily jumpstarted a whole new round of conception in the Castle's surrounding town and smaller villages. The inhabitants of Blood Pledge were naturally just as susceptible, looking moony-eyed at each other and giggling and blushing and generally carrying on uninhibited for nearly three days till the cloud of sexually charged pheromones finally drifted on.

Shibuya Yuuri was just as moony and distracted as the rest of them and his poor fiancé was not allowed out of bed for that three whole days, which was long enough to ensure there'd be a black-haired, green-eyed baby by the start of the New Year.

Wolfram von Bielefeld did not bother to complain – he knew Yuuri would likely remember to make him legal before Gwendal remembered to emasculate the young King for knocking up his innocent baby brother and taking advantage of him. He rather enjoyed being taken advantage of, anyway, especially when the wind blew the right way and Yuuri pounced on him with that hungry look in his black eyes.

However, he had nothing to worry about: Gwendal was rather preoccupied himself. The business of the kingdom had ground to a halt, literally, right there in the middle of his big wooden desk, wrinkled into oblivion by the lusty squirmings and ejaculations of yet another willing victim of Spring's rising sap.

"Gah!" Gwendal exclaimed, moved to express his pleasure at the sight of the violet-haired wanton bucking beneath him. "Ohhhh! Ngn!"

"Fuck!"

It was sentiment echoed widely throughout the Castle and indeed, all of Shin Makoku. Spring had _come_.


	2. Summer, or Consequences

**Mating Season: Summer, or Consequences**

Plants were flowering like mad, bursting out of their buds, nodding to each other in recognition of the season and releasing clouds of interesting smelling particles that had the insects buzzing and the humming dragonettes going decidedly bonkers with twinned thirst and desire.

Crops were growing; all of Shin Makoku was one giant green field, it seemed, crisscrossed with brown furrows full of vegetables that sprouted up overnight and grew three feet by morning— _every_ morning. And the farm animals frolic'd and gamboled, colts stumbling after mares, green greese hinking and honking after their goslings, the sturdy checkerboard milch cows of the southernmost territories nudging trembling polka-dotted calves to their tiny little cloven hooves.

Goats romped satyrically, Pan peeped mischievously from the woods and Dionysius lewdly felt up the new grapes, tiny and green, and dreamt of lush, bounteous harvests to come.

It was chaos, of the organized sort. This happened every year, after all, and Shin Makoku thrived on it—counted on it, to keep its people fed and its economy striding forward.

Gunter von Kleist, however, had been feeling odd for several days now—well, weeks. Ah, actually, two. Months, that is, but it was a gradual sort of feeling, and first he blamed it on a newly discovered allergy to bearbee pollen, and then on the unseasonable heat wave that was a precursor to summer in Shin Makoku. Then it was an issue with certain foods. They made him feel distinctly queasy and off-balance. Often, he fell over, or at least tumbled off his heels backwards into hay bales and onto carelessly swept-clean desk tops. After that, it was his marykou that bothered him, which seemed to be uncertain and spotty, as if Gunter's connection to the wind was staticky or there was a problem with the way he called it. It was as if his winds were…preoccupied, perhaps, as he was, by something. _Something_.

Something undefined.

Gwendal von Voltaire, on the other hand, was antsy. There was no better way to describe it. He'd been knitting madly since March, and had added several new and complicated stitches to his repertoire. Further, his range of cute animal types had expanded to include the ones found on the Maou's Earth. Camels and elephants, which weren't native to Shin Makoku; yellow ducks, which were, but which for some reason he found particularly attractive—and clothing, doll-sized clothing, in a variety of very soft colors: blues and pinks, greens and yellows, even a specific hue of violet, matching exactly—oddly—Lord von Kleist's eye colour.

Anissina had, of course, commented. She spent a great deal of her time closeted in his private study with him, Gwendal thought, and when she wasn't knitting herself, she was picking apart his creations, asking him the whys and wherefores of his frantic creativity. It was beyond annoying, especially as she kept plastering new inventions on his belly—which was fine, thanks—and atop his head, which he noticed was developing some interesting new streaking, which must be from the sun.

"Tell me, Gwen—how do you _feel_?" Anissina would ask and then poke at him some more with strange magically electrified sensors. "Are you dizzy? Nauseous? Overly tired?"

Gwendal's only recourse was to escape, and when he did that, inevitably he tripped over Lord von Kleist, who always seemed to be lingering soulfully in the hallway, or at the supper table, the stables or the gardens or wherever Gwendal might go. This led to a rapid resumption of the events of Spring, physical in nature, which led in turn to muffled, embarrassing noises and hard-to-explain stains and some residual stickiness in the groin area. But it made Gwendal feel better, which is what counted, and then he could return peacefully to knitting tiny little sweaters, or booties, or vests for his elephants and ducks and—also oddly—lambs.

The Maou's fiancé, Wolfram von Bielefeld, was also swelling, incidentally, right along with the buds, especially in the area just below his waist. Yuuri had noticed shortly after Wolfram did that they were expecting and now he was utterly useless—or more useless than usual—staring off into space and constantly chasing after Wolf as he stoically went about his duties with loosened trousers and a much larger sword belt. It was comical, really, but _not_ for Gwendal, who had to constantly suppress the urge to murder his own monarch. This created stress, which led to more sudden trysts with von Kleist, which led to additional knitting and the dungeons were even now overflowing with the products of his rapid-fire needles. The prisoners—there were two—were threatening to revolt.

" _Tell me_ , Gwendal, how do you feel about _that_ subject?" Anissina insisted on quizzing him and by this point she had a little pad of paper she carried with her always and a quill pen at the ready. "Ready to be an uncle?"

_Right_. Something had to be done. Gwendal sprang up off the couch Lady von Karbelnikoff had covertly installed in his office when he wasn't looking and cast his half-knit yellow duckie booties aside in his distraction. He bolted—an action very understandable, if unconscionably rude.

"Von Kleist!" he shouted, spying the silver-haired lord wandering aimlessly around the south-southeast Garden, near the gazebo.

"Are you busy at the moment?"

Gwendal attempted to be polite, as per his training at his mother's shapely knee, but his brain had been dysfunctional for some time. He believed it was related to the sun, which was particularly strong this year. Everyone seemed to be suffering, even his Majesty. Especially Gwendal's little brother Wolfram, who complained constantly of the heat and sent the Maou running off for cold drinks every three minutes.

"Oh! _Gwendal_ —Lord von Voltaire, I meant to say," Gunter's amazing eyes lit up like beacons and he instantly smiled in that dazzling manner he had, but then he _stopped_ smiling abruptly for some unknown reason, blushed red as the sunrise instead and occupying himself with shuffling his elegant feet, digging a toe into the soil in a manner more befitting a shy milkmaid than a man who well into his er—forget that. Age was immaterial.

"N-No…?" von Kleist continued, and Gwendal, too, blushed for no good reason whatsoever and joined von Kleist in the toe circling exercise, as the complex nature of the soils surrounding Blood Pledge Castle was quite fascinating—at least, _he'd_ always thought so.

"Not really. Why?"

"Uh," Gwendal replied, and flung a hand back over his shoulder to indicate the gazebo, covered with a hundred varieties of roses and practically a giant pomander in and of itself.

"Well—" he started, and then ran out of appropriate words somehow. He'd a plan when he'd first ventured out here—escape Anissina, first and foremost; secondly, discuss ways of torturing the Maou into organizing something _official_ , such as a ceremony—but now he'd lost track of that. Perhaps a few minutes chat with the Maou's Chief Advisor would allow him to remember what it was he wanted?

"Yes!"

Gunter kindly rescued him from his bogglement with total agreement to—to _something_ —and then seemed to lose his own balance rather whimsically, as he tripped over what must've been a dust mote. In von Voltaire's recent recollection, von Kleist seemed to be doing this far more often that he used to, especially for such a graceful man and a swordsman, known far and wide for his skills. Naturally, Gwendal had to catch him—the only polite thing to do—which led to them both falling backwards onto the steps of the gazebo in a heap. That smarted, so Gwendal winced, and von Kleist very nicely rubbed his back to ease the pain— _and_ gave him a friendly kiss on the cheek, too, which was _excessively_ kindly on his part.

"I—" Gwendal began, and sat up, so that von Kleist sat up as well, "was thinking tea," which he had _not_ been thinking _at all_ , but von Kleist wasn't to know that and besides, von Kleist seemed to be swooning suddenly—really, was the man _ill_? Gwendal wondered—so Gwendal shelved his random thought of tea and applied a liberal dose of rose-fragrant air instead, directly between Gunter's parted lips, by way of his own.

Revived by this valiant effort to induce oxygen into his airways, von Kleist breathed easy again—no, _no_ , he was still gasping, Gwendal noted—and scrambled backward and upward, gaining the floor of the gazebo proper. Gwendal followed, of course, in case more life-saving procedures were needed, and patted von Kleist on the collarbone in sympathy, as that was readily available, von Kleist's shoulders being flat on the gazebo's floor. Von Kleist was in process of unbuttoning his high collar, no doubt to allow for easier breathing, so their fingers tangled, naturally enough. Gwendal discovered his compatriot's collarbone was entirely visible in all its pale glory, as was one bared shoulder and a goodly portion of his manly chest.

"Lord von Voltaire!" Gunter spoke suddenly, startling Gwendal out of his fascination with the skin shivering under his fingertips and the view, which was pleasant. "Er—did you _want_ something…in particular? Something _I_ can help you with? Other than…tea?"

Gwendal didn't answer; his mouth was busy, fastened leech-like on von Kleist's throat, which seemed very white in the dappled light and quite tasty—far more satisfying than the tea he didn't want and didn't know why he'd mentioned in the first place. His hands were likewise occupied, completing the unbuttoning sequence, in the name of aiding von Kleist's interest in breathing more easily.

"Oh!" von Kleist murmured, and the one syllable contained a vast wealth of understanding. Gwendal grunted his satisfaction at being so properly empathized with by someone who seemed thoroughly in tune with his odd feelings of—of _something_!— and proceeded apace with gallantly removing the layers of pesky white cloth the Maou's Chief Advisor insisted on wearing even though it was hot as blazes.

Poor man—he had to be sweltering. Must be the sun—it _was_ particularly strong this year, wasn't it?

"Hum," von Voltaire muttered, having moved to a crouching position on his hands and knees, poised directly over the luscious body of Lord von Kleist— _and_ having enthusiastically and efficiently stripped von Kleist of his clothes already.

"Your hair!"

By which Gwendal meant that he found it was appealing, all that silky, silver stuff, though there was an awful lot of it—more than _he_ had, certainly—and it seemed to beg to be wrapped around his fingers. Gwendal did so, and von Kleist very willingly allowed this, tipping his head back, which incidentally provided a nice panorama of von Kleist's abs, pecs and stomach region, all firmly muscled and sporting two rose-pink nipples, positioned in just the most perfect way. Also for perusal was Gunter's sparse, nearly transparent chest hair, which trickled down the center of his ribcage and disappeared invitingly under the waistband of his purple silk thong in a luxuriant mass of silky silver curls.

"Yum," Gwendal grunted appreciatively and promptly helped himself to a nipple. "That's _niiice_!"

" _Yesss_ ," von Kleist hissed, which was without a doubt a sign of approval, so Gwendal obligingly worked his way down farther, dipping a tongue into Gunter's belly button and the deliciously soft area surrounding.

"Ah!" Gunter yelped, instantly responsive, which Gwendal felt was an open invitation to sample other fleshy items—things that jutted up and out against pesky royal purple cloth in a throbbing, hot manner and things that sank in beneath it and were equally hot and quite secret; though not to _him_ , recently. He took care of that annoying thong first thing, nipping the ties clean through with his teeth—and all of _that_ action, taken together, of course, was an act which met with further, eager approval from von Kleist.

"Ahhhh…." Von Kleist moaned, wriggling in a _very_ inviting manner, and Gwendal had the sneaking inkling that this might very well turn into another of 'those' encounters.

His cock seemed to be under that impression, too, and it was practically bobbing off his hips in excitement, looking for an 'encounter' _right now_. Gunter—von Kleist—but for the moment Gwendal chose to think of him as 'Gunter'—immediately attempted to distract the thing by grabbing it, but Gwendal could've told him _that_ would do no good. No— _nothing_ short of repetitive friction could solve his problem at this point.

"Rub it!" he ordered, and Gunter apparently felt this to be the wisest course of action, as he did.

"Suck it!" Gwendal begged, one-and-a-quarter minutes later, shuffling on his knees up the line of the Maou's Chief Advisor's excellently fine body and presenting his most demanding part to von Kleist's pale pink lips for the service.

Von Kleist had no problem with that, either. Gwendal—most definitely wild-eyed and discombobulated after but a moment of cooperation on von Kleist's part—had not the slightest compunction expressing his next urgent wish.

"I want to fuck you!" he informed von Kleist, much in the same manner as he had informed his mother he wanted his first pony _right now_ , lo, those many years ago. Coincidentally, this was also the manner in which he addressed his soldiers and, to a man, they all eagerly jumped, after first politely asking 'How high, sir?'

Gunter nodded, understandably enthusiastic, and pulled his lips off Gwendal with a 'pop'.

"Please do!"

"Alright, then!" Gwendal nodded, or bobbed his head in time with his 'other' head in a vaguely synchronized fashion, and then stared frantically about their intimate surroundings for something that might work to ease things along. Earth marykou wasn't going to cut it in this particular case.

Not much presented itself. There were roses, of course, but they were no help, other than smelling lovely and sweet. There was pollen—dry, gritty—and dirt—wet, messy and sadly, unsuitable. There was wood—the gazebo was made of that—and some cushions on the garden furniture and there were a few bearbees here and there amidst the petals, whispering 'Nogisu!' in a melodious and horribly cute fashion, but little else.

"No! Let _me_!" Gunter interjected suddenly, and raised himself up on his wonderfully elegant elbows.

With a vastly determined look on his face—the same face that many a brave fighter had stared at with a terrified gulp and a fast prayer for a quick death—Gunter swallowed Gwendal once more and this time he worked his tongue like a veritable champ, slobbering saliva liberally up and down the length of Gwendal's shaft. At last, satisfied with a job well done and having reduced Gwendal to a gibbering hunk 'o horny Mazoku, he set the purpling flesh free to resume its little dance of desire.

" _Now_ , Lord von Voltaire!" Gunter urged, and simultaneously shoved Gwendal down and brought his own various pertinent parts up in such as way as to align them perfectly for the next act in this somewhat incoherent drama. Or rather, Gunter _tried_ —Gwendal's firm thighs, boney hips and incredibly squeezable ass got in the way.

"Yebbles!" Gwendal replied hastily, meaning something along the lines of 'Yes! I'm on it!' and shimmied his way down the elegant line of von Kleist's atrociously delicious length.

"Gah!" he went on to assure Gunter, a statement which may be loosely translated as 'I can't fucking _wait_ to get into you, you sexy thing!'

With the two brain cells Gwendal had yet remaining pinging frantically about his spinning head and screaming 'Stretch him, idiot!', Gwendal assumed 'the' position, pausing only to plunge one quickly licked preparatory finger in. This elicited yet another satisfied hiss from Lord von Kleist, writhing serpent-like beneath him, so Gwendal added another and moved them both about in some vaguely intentional way that had Gunter's hips rocking methodically pretty much instantly. Having thrown a bone at the dogs of foreplay for perhaps fifteen seconds total elapsed time—but who was counting?—Gwendal took the bit in his teeth and rammed the part of himself that most urgently required it into that little pink pucker with no further adieu.

"Ngh! Ahnnnn!" Gunter said—or rather, shrieked. Melodiously, much like the bearbees, who added a 'Nogisu!' chorus of their own. Still, it was quite apparent that Gunter was actually enjoying this act of outright invasion greatly—an observer would've known instantly by both the high, whining keen he emitted and the attractive flush.

The bearbees, for whatever reason of their own, immediately began circling the Maou's two elder advisors in much the same way airplanes buzz around a landing strip, humming and emitting piercing cries of 'Nogisu! Nogisu!' all the while. This would've been a distracting sight, but both von Kleist and von Voltaire were already plenty distracted, and so, effectively, it made no difference to them.

"Gargh!" Gwendal shouted, his balls tightening all too soon.

"Ohhhh!" Gunter responded in a dying wail, and brought his knees higher, arching his back off the floor entirely.

" _Fuck_!" Gwendal screamed, at the end of a particular meaningful pummel, and took that long dive off the short cliff to the ocean of ecstasy.

"Gods! Yes! Yes! Yeeeeesssss!"

Gunter joined him, sibilant in his pleasure, and then they both—mercifully—passed out.

Fortunately, 'mornings after' were not an issue when it was still the same day and in the same hour. Gwendal woke first from his stupor; realized he was sticky, naked—when did _that_ happen?—and marvelously replete. Gunter woke second; realized he was sticky, somewhat sore, and might possibly be prone to tap-dancing his general feeling of euphoria in a one-man, sold-out performance for the pleasure of the entire world, should he _ever_ manage to get back on his feet. Or not.

Both gentlemen then turned their respective heads, having realized their various luxuriant head hairs were entangled on _something_ —and stared at one another for the space of fifteen seconds, blushing like twin infernos. Thus commenced the concerted scramble for clothing, feet and dignity.

" _Ah_ -hem," von Voltaire cleared his throat, which was sore from screaming, and attempted to rally his scattered thoughts from the various counties they'd fled to.

"Yes, _ah_ ," von Kleist replied, also suffering from the same ailment, and tilted his seriously bed-haired noggin at an inquiring angle, looking adorable and rather desperately wishing for a pocket-comb.

"Right. Would you like to see my latest creations?" Gwendal asked shyly, toe digging stubbornly into the wood flooring of the gazebo, and privately of the opinion Lord von Kleist looked positively edible with his hair like _that_ , "and maybe have some tea? I have elephants," he went on to offer, with much the same 'little-boy' charm he'd exhibited when he'd delivered up to his fond mother his first captured bullfrog. This unfortunate animal had been carried back to his mother's house on the back of Gwendal's first pony and needless to say, neither animal had been quite the same after. Both, however, were preserved in Gwendal's fond memory by way of knitted, stuffed, brownish or greenish squishy objects that possibly resembled either pancakes or maybe sausages with legs.

"Oh."

Gunter was a little blank at the thought of viewing—and 'oohing' over—von Voltaire's ever-growing collection of knitted items, but nonetheless still game, in a somewhat smitten manner. He swayed, though, feeling faint, which presented Gwendal with the opportunity to snag him firmly and fuss over 'the' hair. That involved lips, somehow, and also tongues, as compliments on sexily tousled silver-gilt hair are best given directly to the person who inspires them. _Very_ directly. Also, Lord von Kleist seemed a tad bit pale after their recent exertions, and von Voltaire thought it only prudent to provide him with additional oxygen.

"Of course I'd _love_ to, my Lord!" Lord von Kleist went on with yet more enthusiasm, having eventually caught both his errant breath and his stuttering brain function and wrestled both to the ground successfully. His emotion was, to be fair, completely genuine—he'd just recalled that Lord von Voltaire had a couch in his office, recently installed; a lovely wide piece of furniture with very sturdy legs.

"Well...good!"

Lord von Voltaire stuck his arm out with his own specific brand of enthusiasm, which involved a 'cute but stern' feature and some additional, completely gratuitous blushing.

"May I?" he offered. "I mean—will you?"

"Thank you!"

Lord von Kleist took the arm—well, clutched it, actually—and off they went, pausing to further exclaim breathlessly to each other over stray pretty flowers and the odd state of the bearbees and other nonsense as they paced majestically back to Blood Pledge and Gwendal's hopefully Anissina-free office.

Ah, summer. Such a pleasant time of year. So full of growth…and great expectations.


End file.
